


Grace, Too

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-13
Updated: 2004-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-27 09:45:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12078573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: "It was every cliche he could think of about LA." Post episode 414, also contains Justin/Other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

It was every cliché he could think of about LA.

 

Justin was at a party clogged with superstars; people with immediately recognizable faces, actors and producers that wouldn’t look him in the eye unless they thought he was _somebody_. But then again, everybody is somebody in LA, right?

 

There were no hot vampires, though, Justin realized sadly. It was really a shame.

 

As fun as parties could be, ever since his brief career stint as go-go boy, Justin was a little uncomfortable around coffee tables crisscrossed in lines of cocaine. He made a few well-placed compliments and excuses, and then hid over in the corner like a good wallflower. 

 

Anyway, he’d been a social little bee for long enough that day. In addition to his duties as assistant art director, Brett Keller expected Justin to schmooze with the stars and other very-important-people. He said that Justin, being the co-creator _and_ the inspiration for one of the characters, would be their best foot forward. Seeing him around at functions would be free publicity. 

 

He could chat nicely for a while, Brett suggested, and then Justin could calmly slip little tidbits into conversation, like – “Actually, this project I’m working on, it’s very daring and provocative...“

 

Brett said, crazy as it is, sometimes it’s really all about the buzz words.

 

As a consequence of being out and about all the time, Justin was pretty much _exhausted_ all the time, and was picking up a nasty caffeine habit that reminded him of Brian. Any moment Justin spent by the gurgling coffeemaker ended up giving him a raging erection, and the smell of ground coffee beans made his breath catch.

 

But he wasn’t going to get sleep for a while, so he might as well get used to it.

 

Justin glanced around awkwardly, cradling a glass in one hand. His attention was caught by a painting on the wall, and he stepped closer to look at it. It was an angular blocking of triangles and squares. The style was distinctive, and Justin couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before. 

 

He studied the lines of paint closely, and a guy bumped against his back and nearly knocked him into the artwork.

 

“Hey, watch it,” said Justin, and the guy turned to look at him. He was slightly grizzled, dark-haired --definitely not _hot_ , but kind of handsome in a fierce way.

 

The guy wrinkled his nose.

 

“What, _that_?” he said disdainfully. “ _I_ could paint that. I can’t believe the shit they call art.”

 

Justin opened his mouth, ready to leap to the defense of artists everywhere. It pissed him off when people said things like “I could draw that,” or “Looks like something a five year-old did,” or “I just don’t understand this modern art thing.” But he looked a little closer at the guy, and suddenly recognized him.

 

“Yeah,” said Justin, “You _could_ paint that, couldn’t you?” He smiled and stuck his hand out. 

 

Sam Auerbach. The man was as much an asshole as he was a genius, Justin had heard, but what the hell. Justin was as good with assholes as he was with dicks.

 

Auerbach raised an eyebrow and took his hand gingerly. “I see you’ve found me out,” he said, and gripped Justin’s hand a little more firmly, gave it a good shake.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Auerbach,” said Justin. “My name’s Justin Taylor. I love your –“

 

“What do you do?” Auerbach interrupted. 

 

“Uh -”

 

“Modelling? Romantic comedies? Action movies?”

 

“No,” Justin started to say.

 

“Do you think that because you play a pretty boy on television it makes me the least bit interested in your opinion?” 

 

Justin’s mouth fell open. 

 

Sam shook his head. “Never mind. Have a good night.” He began to walk away, but Justin impulsively grabbed his hand again to halt him.

 

Justin’s smile didn’t waver, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back for it. The man really _was_ an asshole, and Justin was way past taking shit from anyone. 

 

“Actually,” he said breezily, and turned loose of Auerbach’s hand. “I’m here as assistant art director for a current movie project. I was hired specifically for my expertise.” And okay, maybe that was laying it on a bit thick, but Justin was pretty fucking annoyed by then.

 

“Ah,” said Auerbach, and instead of surprise, or even acknowledgement that Justin wasn’t _just_ a pretty boy, his gaze wandered toward the sound of laughter from a cluster of people nearby. 

 

“They’re designing sets and costumes based on my original designs,” said Justin.

 

“Impressive,” said Auerbach, sounding bored.

 

“...and I attend the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts,” said Justin, grasping at straws.

 

“Pittsburgh,” Auerbach said slowly, “is a fucking _hellhole_ of a city,” and then he was gone before Justin could react.

 

*

 

The phone rang three times before Brian picked up.

 

“I hate it here,” Justin said immediately at the sound of the static.

 

There was a pause, and the sound of an amused snort. “No, you don’t,” said Brian. “You love it there. Who’s offended your virtue now, Mr. Taylor?”

 

“Fuck you,” said Justin, but he had to grin. God, he missed Brian. “Nobody. Just some famous asshole artist. He pissed me off and I ended up sounding like a complete twat.”

 

“Hmm,” said Brian. “But you _are_ a twat,” and he said it playfully, and with that _tone_ in his voice, that tone that Brian only started using a few months before Justin came to LA. 

 

Justin covered the receiver and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly for a moment. 

 

“So what shining celebrities have you fucked lately?” said Brian.

 

Justin cleared his throat and took his hand off the receiver. “Nobody interesting lately,” he said, because he didn’t feel like making something up, “but one of the Olsen twins slipped me her number the other day. I burned it.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Brian laughed, “I should hope so.” 

 

“I don’t know, though,” said Justin. “The way things are going, I think if I get a chance to fuck Mary-Kate, I might go for it.”

 

He imagined that he could feel Brian’s disgusted shudder all the way down the phone line.

 

“You’re obviously out of your fucking mind,” Brian said. “Remember not to drink the punch at those fucking parties anymore, got it?” 

 

“Yes, _daddy_ ,” Justin said.

 

“Fuck you,” Brian said. “I’m hanging up now. The long-distance bills aren’t worth this shit.”

 

Justin chuckled, then quickly added a not quite sarcastic “I love you too,” because he knew from experience that Brian wasn’t joking about hanging up. 

 

There was a pause, and Brian said softly, “Yeah, I guess you do.”

 

It was followed almost immediately by a click that Justin could barely hear, but that made his heart thud dully against his ribs anyway. 

 

Justin thumbed the phone off.

 

*

 

He ran into Sam Auerbach again the next night.

 

“Well -” said Auerbach, “If it isn’t the artistic prodigy from Pittsburgh.”

 

Justin grinned huge and fake. “Yes. And, if it isn’t the aging, rest-on-his-laurels sell-out _mural_ painter.” 

 

He had a feeling of “oh _fuck_ did I just say that?” that was coupled with a feeling of satisfaction. It was good to be a vindictive little shit sometimes.

 

Auerbach raised an eyebrow and peered down his nose at Justin, even though it meant he had to tilt his head back. 

 

“So, what was your name again?” he asked after a moment. 

 

*

 

They ended up lurking by the bar for a while, taking advantage of the free alcohol, and then they decided to weave their way through the crowd and sit on the staircase. 

 

The staircase was really wide and marble, and hurt Justin’s ass. Attractive actresses kept bumping past them on their way to the bathroom.

 

“I didn’t really mean that,” said Justin. “What I said earlier. I mean, I did mean it, a lot, but I still think you’re sort of a genius. You know what I mean?”   
“Mm,” said Auerbach.

 

“Anyway,” said Justin, “Sorry I’m being such a twat. I mean – yeah. I’m really tired, my brain isn’t at its best.”

 

Another actress made her way past them, and she stumbled slightly. Auerbach reached out to steady her, and Justin had to blink slowly, hoping he wasn’t seeing what he was most likely seeing. 

 

The actress looked like she was about to punch Auerbach in the face, but he grinned winningly and took his hand off her ass. She glared a moment longer before she relented and continued on her way.

 

He turned back to Justin. “Where were we?” Auerbach said. 

 

“Was that Cameron _Diaz_?”

 

“Oh, probably,” said Auerbach, “I can’t keep all those blondes straight.” He raised his shotglass in a brief toast to nothing. “But enough of me! You’re young, talented, you have your whole career in front of you. Tell me about yourself.”

 

“Um,” said Justin, “Um, what do you want to –“

 

“Anything,” Auerbach interrupted. “Tell me about your passions.” 

 

Auerbach’s voice was suddenly gruff, and Justin felt it slide through him like soft pencil lines. “Tell me about your art, boy.”

 

Justin started to open his mouth, tried to think of a good spin to put on _I draw pictures of superheroes fucking._ But no, he didn’t feel like talking about that, because it felt like he’d been talking about nothing but Rage for months now. 

 

Justin tried to think of anything else he’d done recently, anything that might be noteworthy to Sam fucking Auerbach, and his head started to pound. Shit. Oh, shit. 

 

“I draw pictures of superheroes fucking,” said Justin. “For the comic book. Rage. They’re making it into a movie, that’s why I’m here.”

 

“Never heard of it,” Auerbach said, and Justin wondered how much more disinterested he could sound. 

 

Auerbach cleared his throat. “Well, keep up the good work,” he said. He hoisted himself off the stairs and nodded solemnly at Justin, and wandered off to find the bar again.

 

*

 

Justin was still staying at Brett’s mansion, even though he was starting to earn enough money to rent a small place of his own. He just didn’t have the energy to move, and Brett was fine with him there, and claimed that he often didn’t even notice Justin’s existence. Justin assumed he was supposed to find that comforting.

 

It’s the upside to having more rooms in a house than you know what to do with, Justin thought. 

 

So Justin was living out of his suitcases and a few stacks of Stor-all boxes. The few tricks that he’d actually brought back to his room had all complimented him on his avante garde cardboard box furniture. If that became the new home decorating fad in a couple of years, Justin was so claiming the copyright.

 

But after his second encounter with Auerbach, Justin was disquieted, nearly aching with frustration. He was tired, really fucking tired, and his head was still throbbing. He had tried briefly to sketch something, but he couldn’t concentrate.

 

He wanted to talk to Brian, but Justin knew that he was exhausted and frustrated enough, that if he did call Brian, he’d end up sobbing down the phone line and spewing self-pitying bullshit. And he would hate himself for it in the morning.

 

So Justin called Daphne instead, and woke her up.

 

“Jesus,” she said blearily. “Do you know what time – oh, screw it. Hi.”

 

“Hey,” said Justin. 

 

“You never call me anymore, asshole. How’s LA?” Daphne paused. “What’s wrong?”

 

Justin could tell Daphne was cranky from her interrupted sleep, but she somehow knew this was a _Justin on the verge of a nervous breakdown_ kind of night. 

 

“Nothing really, I just –“

 

So _what_ if he was being a drama queen. 

 

Justin told Daphne everything he could think of, little things that had been bugging him for too long. Because he was slowly becoming good friends with some of his coworkers, but he didn’t know them well enough to just sit back and vent, not like he could with Daphne and Brian.

 

He told her about Brett’s plans, and the endless work that Justin was doing, and the endless occasions when he had to convince people that an unabashedly gay superhero movie was something the world needed, and that real live kids did occasionally get their heads crunched in by baseball bats, and that _no_ , Zephyr could _not_ be played by Angelina Jolie. 

 

Daphne didn’t really say a lot to any of it, she just _uh-huh_ ed in all the right places. She’d always known what those places were. Justin missed that.

 

“Anyway, it’s exhausting,” he said. “It’s fucking exhausting.”

 

“It sounds intense,” said Daphne.

 

“It is. And god, I – I miss Brian. More than I thought I would. I thought we’d be too busy with our own shit, you know? But I miss him, even when I don’t have any time to think about _anything_.”

 

“I saw him the other day,” said Daphne. “At the post office.”

 

“Really? How did he look?” 

 

“He looked good. Tired, maybe. He tried to hit on me again.”

 

“Jesus,” Justin smiled, “He never gives up. Not that you really want him to, do you?”

 

Daphne considered for a second. “Hmm, ...no, not really,” she said with a laugh. “Okay, now, I _know_ there’s more. What else is going on?”

 

Justin sighed and stared at the wall. “I met this artist. Sam Auerbach?”

 

“Not a clue,” said Daphne.

 

“He’s pretty well-known. He’s really – yeah. He’s into abstract expressionism. Anyway, I’ve run into him a couple of times, and we were talking, and he asked me about my art.”

 

“Really? That’s cool.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah. Except –“ he fell silent.

 

“Except what?”

 

“I didn’t know what to tell him.” Justin laughed incredulously. “Can you believe it? I mean, I should _know_ what to say, I should know what the fuck kind of art I do, and I went blank, I couldn’t even – “

 

Justin started to cry a little, and said “Goddamnit, fucking fuck fuck it, _Christ_ ,” and wiped the tears away with his knuckles.

 

“Yeah,” said Daphne. “That does kind of sum it all up, doesn’t it?”

 

“Kinda.” He sniffled a little and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. “But aside from all that, I’m having a good time here, too. It’s amazing, everything’s amazing, and Rage being on the big screen... it’ll be awesome, Daph. But right now, I’m just... you know? I need some fucking sleep. I’m just...”

 

“You’re scared,” said Daphne, with a certainty born of countless fucking years of friendship. 

 

Justin laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I guess,” he said. “And the thing with Auerbach... I realized earlier what’s really been bothering me. I think I’ve lost my inspiration somewhere, Daph.”

 

“Well then,” she said, “Go find it again.” 

 

“It’s not that easy.” 

 

“Sure it is,” Daphne said. “And _I_ need to get some sleep because it’s _the middle of the fucking night_ here, you... you whatever.”

 

Justin gave a quiet laugh. “’You whatever’?”

 

“Whatever! I hate you. I can’t even come up with a good insult. But call me tomorrow, okay?”

 

“Okay,” he said. “Love you, Daph.”


	2. Grace, Too

The next night, Brett sent Justin to a gallery opening for an actor who was genre-hopping.

 

“It’s just so amazing,” Justin had overheard the actor gush, “to finally be appreciated for something other than how buff I look on screen!”

 

The paintings were atrocious.

 

Justin set eyes on a watercolor of a putrescent-looking daffodil, and fought a shudder. 

 

Someone stepped up beside him. “What a coincidence to see you here,” said Auerbach.

 

Justin said, “Right.”

 

“What, not happy to see me?” Auerbach said. “I’m truly hurt.”

 

“It’s not you,” said Justin, although that wasn’t exactly the case. “Sorry.” 

 

Auerbach grinned at him. “Apology accepted,” he said, “Although far from necessary.”

 

Justin snorted. “Don’t tell me. Sorry’s bullshit?”

 

“Impeccable phrasing,” said Auerbach.

 

“I had a good teacher,” said Justin, and smiled back at him.

 

Auerbach peered at the watercolor. “ _Hmm_ ,” he said mockingly, “The artist’s bold use of symbolism is very... unique.” 

 

“But, the execution is completely inept, the overall effect is lost somewhere in the layers of glitter he poured on it, and this entire exhibit is a waste of time,” said Justin, and then fervently hoped the artist in question wasn’t standing behind him.

 

“I see you have a good eye,” Auerbach said, laughed, and gave Justin’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. 

 

*

 

They ended up getting drunk by the cocktail bar.

 

“Y’know,” said Justin, “I think it’s great that everywhere you go, you can find little dishes of peanuts. It’s... _fabulous_ , as my friend Emmett would say. Also, he’d probably try to eat them with a fork, or possibly a spoon. Have you ever noticed that those queens who grow up in the south always act a little bit funny?”

 

Sam started laughing again, and Justin decided that he approved of the laugh. It sounded like it grated off the sides of Sam’s throat. It was kind of sexy.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” said Sam, “But I should tell you about my Aunt Faye –“

 

Sam started laughing so hard he couldn’t get a word out. His Aunt Faye was obviously a very funny person.

 

Justin had decided to call him Sam in his head instead of Auerbach, because “Sam” seemed very Casablanca, and there was a guy named Sam in that movie, right? And it was entirely possible that Justin had been way too tired to start drinking, but it was too late now.

 

“Sorry,” said Justin, “I should go. I need to get some sleep before work.”

 

“Find someone to drive you home,” said Sam, “Someone who doesn’t wobble too badly.”

 

“Yeah, I will,” said Justin. “Thanks,” and on his taxi ride back to the mansion he tried to remember the plot to Casablanca, but couldn’t. Brian would know, though. Next time they talked, Justin should ask him.

 

*

 

Three days later, at a soiree for kids starving in Africa, Justin started to catch on.

 

Sam Auerbach gave him a friendly nod and started to walk past, but Justin grabbed his shoulder and said, “Wait –“

 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

 

“Are you _following_ me?” Justin knew as he said it that he sounded completely crazy, and his voice carried a tone of disbelief.

 

But instead of calling security or telling him to fuck off, Sam started laughing. 

 

“I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out,” he chuckled.

 

Justin tried to think of something to say in response, but was left speechless. 

 

Sam reached out and pushed Justin’s jaw shut. He seemed to find the entire situation incredibly amusing. “Do you really think even _I_ would go to this many damn cocktail parties if I absolutely didn’t have to?” he said.

 

“I don’t understand,” said Justin. “Why – and how?”

 

Sam shrugged. “I looked you up,” he said. “Assistant art director on Rage, Justin Taylor. You struck me as interesting.”

 

“I struck -?”

 

“What was it you said? That one time? Oh yes.” Sam grinned, quoted “The ’rest-on-his-laurels sell-out’?”

 

“Mural painter,” finished Justin, “Yes. But I –“

 

“You interest me,” said Sam. “It’s relatively easy to find people _like_ myself in a place like this, but much harder to find someone as _intriguing_ as myself.”

 

Justin nodded and scratched his head sheepishly. “Right,” he said. “Umm, I’m very flattered.”

 

“Don’t be,” said Sam, and clapped him on the back. “Now, I actually do have to go. I’ll see you at the next charity benefit, shall I?”

 

*

 

“Hey,” said Justin. “Brian? Are you there?”

 

He paused.

 

“Okay, I guess not. I know it’s pretty late there, you’re probably out somewhere, or maybe even asleep already. I can’t keep track of the time zones yet. Sorry. Um, I’ll call you back later.”

 

Another pause.

 

“Love you, Brian. Sleep well. Miss you.”

 

Justin thumbed his cell off, but a split second before he hit the “end” button, he could have sworn he heard a click on the line, like a phone being picked up.

 

Justin waited for a few minutes to see if Brian would call him back, but he didn’t.

 

*

 

The producers said that Minnie Driver would make a good Zephyr. Justin dreaded the phone call in which he had to tell Michael that the head honchos thought he’d be better as a girl. 

 

Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to make the call. Brett was trying to win the producers over.

 

“Just think,” he’d said, “If Zephyr is male, then we could bring in a whole unrequited love subplot for him and Rage. It would really resonate with the viewers. We’ve all been there, we’ve all known that feeling of being so hopelessly - ” 

 

Justin tried to keep his snickering to a minimum. “Also,” he interrupted, “Rage would never have a girl sidekick. Not in a million years.”

 

One of the producers, Anthony Readman, shook his head with a snort. “But we can’t risk appearing sexist. If there’s no strong female lead, we’re going to lose a big demographic of movie-goers.”

 

“What, straight men?” said Justin.

 

“No, the feminists. And women over 30.”

 

Justin wanted to scream. 

 

Finally, the producers said they’d think about it, and Justin endured a friendly hug from Brett before tiredly exiting the room.

 

Justin planned to grab something to eat and then head back to the mansion and collapse. Just as he was about to leave the building, his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, and hoped to god it wasn’t either of the Olsen twins.

 

“At least Milan wasn’t boring,” said a scratchy voice. “At least it _inspired_ me. This place has no soul.”

 

Justin gaped for a moment. “How did you get my number?”

 

“I bribed Keller’s butler.” Sam paused. “So, since you’re more or less my source of entertainment, I thought at least I could attempt to reciprocate with a drink or two, on me. Interested?”

 

“Sure,” said Justin, even though he had been planning on making it an early night.

 

“Good! I’m waiting out front for you.”

 

*

 

Instead of a bar, Sam took Justin back to the apartment he was renting. “Just for a few weeks,” he said, “and then I’m onto New York. I fucking miss New York.”

 

“What are you doing in Los Angeles, then?” asked Justin.

 

Sam unlocked the door and pushed it open, ushering Justin in. He flipped on the light, illuminating a cluttered living room. There were a couple of paintings propped against the wall, and the coffee table was covered in sketchpads and paper, as was the couch, which was apparently not used for actual seating.

 

“Beer?” asked Sam, and Justin shrugged a ‘yes’ at him. He went over to the kitchen area adjoining the living room, pulled open the refrigerator and called over his shoulder, “I was asked to come here.”

 

Justin was peering at the paintings, squinting in the crappy dimmer-switch lighting. “Huh?” he said absently. 

 

“Asked,” repeated Sam, and handed Justin a beer. “Some big-budget artsy flick for the masses. They asked me to donate a few pieces, and I told them, ‘donate? You’re sure as hell paying me.’ They figured that for the price I was asking, I might as well come out here and doodle on their set in person.”

 

“So you’re doing a mural for them too?” Justin took a swig of beer, and with a nod from Sam, moved the painting aside so he could look at the one behind it.

 

Sam sighed and leaned against the wall next to the paintings. “I really am becoming a fucking old mural painter,” he said.

 

“You’re not just a mural painter,” Justin said. “You’re an artist to be admired. You’ve really made something of yourself, and everyone says your paintings are brilliant...”

 

Sam shrugged carelessly. “Well, what do I care about brilliancy? I’m getting a lot of dough from this deal.”

 

Justin looked at him. “Is that why you do it?”

 

Instead of answering, Sam said “Why do _you_ do it?” He gulped his own beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I want to see some of your work.”

 

Justin shook his head. “I don’t have anything here with me,” he said. “Unless you want to see some of my illustrations for Rage.”

 

“Whatever you have,” said Sam, and gave him a raised-eyebrow grin. “I’m dying in suspense here.”

 

Justin dug in his satchel for a moment, and pulled out a copy of Rage #4. It was the one where Rage and Zephyr went on a motorcycle race to defeat the Crystal Bullies. “Here,” he said. “It’s not my best stuff, but...”

 

Sam took it from him and studied the cover intently. Justin bit his lip and stood there a moment, but Sam, without looking up, motioned him over to the couch. 

 

“Sit down,” he said, “You’re making me nervous.” 

 

Justin cautiously cleared some of the sketches from the couch and sat down. He didn’t know where to put the handful, so he started flipping through them.

 

Sam Auerbach’s main body of work was his abstract, geometric pieces. Justin had seen the mural back in Pittsburgh that was representative of his style. He used bold lines and primary colors, weaving them together in jagged, stylized cohesion. 

 

In his rougher sketches, Sam had the same sense of spontaneity. He seemed to toss off a few lines haphazardly, and tie them together with others, often causing the sketches to look chaotic. Almost sharp-edged.

 

Most of the drawings were abstract, but Justin found a few images of people, mainly women. He paused at one sketch of a dark-haired woman, charcoal shading against the curves of her hips and leaping off her shoulders. Sam had probably sketched her quickly. The edges were rough, like he’d been rushed. Justin decided not to think of why. It was damn good, though. 

 

Justin flipped through a couple other drawings, and stopped on one of a smiling blonde woman. He tipped the page to the side to catch the light, but before he could focus on it, Sam took it out of his hand.

 

“Oh,” said Justin, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

 

“No problem at all,” said Sam, and dropped the drawing on the coffee table, face down. He took the rest of the pile from Justin and sat them directly on top. “Most of my pieces aren’t so personal.”

 

“I noticed,” said Justin.

 

Sam gave him a considering look. “Really,” he said. “How so?”

 

“Well, I mean,” Justin said, “Your abstract work is brilliant, right? But to be honest, I don’t always know what I’m supposed to be feeling when I look at it.” 

 

“Uh-huh.” Sam nodded for him to continue.

 

Justin stood up. “Like... that one,” he pointed at one of the pieces. “Traditionally, blue is supposed to be a calm color, very contemplative. But the way you use it here, it’s so dark that it seems angrier. And then you have the orange shading against the border, and – I don’t get it. I don’t understand what you mean.”

 

“Why does art have to mean anything?” said Sam. “Maybe I just mixed up a nice palette color and thought I’d use it in something. Art school analysis doesn’t do you any good when it comes to my work.”

 

“But, even subconsciously, you must have been _feeling_ the color you painted.”

 

“That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” said Sam. “I painted that color because I wanted to. I enjoyed it. Maybe I ‘felt’ it, maybe I just thought it looked _pretty_. If you’re getting into all that shit, the question would be what do _you_ feel when you look at it?”

 

Justin sighed. “But if you’re trying to convey your vision to the viewer –“

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Sam. He held up his hands in a warding-off gesture. “Conveying a vision is different than telling people what to feel.”

 

“Maybe you’re right,” Justin said. “But that’s all beside the point. My point was that I can look at these pieces and not understand them, but I can look at your other sketches and I can understand them because I _feel_ them more.” He was starting to gesture emphatically along with his words. 

 

“There’s this energy, this rush to them. And your sketches of women are practically _oozing_ sensuality, and your lines go everywhere, they’re skewed, yet it all makes sense...” 

 

Sam nodded slowly. “So,” he said, “what are you trying to tell me?”

 

Justin blinked at him. “I’m not trying to tell you anything. You asked me what I thought.”

 

“But what’s your conclusion?”

 

Justin shrugged. “I don’t have one. I’m just telling you what I think.”

 

Sam held up the issue of Rage. “Then do you want to know what I think of this?”

 

Justin took a deep breath. “Yes.”

 

“Okay.” Sam took another swig of beer and set the bottle down on the floor next to the coffee table. “I’m not saying that it’s not decent inkwork,” Sam said, “I hate judging this kind of shit. But it doesn’t seem _alive_. I can’t tell anything about _you_ from this.”

 

“That might not be the best example of...”

 

“Do you want to hear this?”

 

Justin nodded.

 

“To me, the drawings are dead. They’re flat. There’s no shadow, and that means you can’t tell where the _light_ is coming from.”

 

“It’s a comic book,” said Justin, and it came out sounding more annoyed than he meant it to sound. “There’s only so much I can work with.” 

 

“Ah,” said Sam, “Well, what do I know?”

 

“No, go on,” said Justin. 

 

Sam sighed. “I think you’re making excuses. I don’t know shit about comic books, but I know that you’re the _artist_. You want to convey a vision, right? Whose? Make your own vision, formula be damned.” He sat on the arm of the couch next to Justin and handed the issue back. “What were you saying about PIFA the other day?”

 

Justin shrugged. “I go there,” he said in a clipped tone.

 

“I know that school. They only accept the best, right?”

 

“Yeah,” said Justin. “I guess they think I’m pretty good.”

 

“Hmm,” said Sam. “Good at doing what they tell you.” He cocked his head to the side. “That’s bullshit, too.”

 

Justin bit his lip and raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know what kind of reaction Sam expected from him, but he had a feeling he wasn’t giving it. Should he fall to his knees and thank Sam for taking the time to blast him? Fuck that.

 

“You don’t need a fucking education to be an artist,” said Sam. “Natural drive is not something that can be taught. Are you there at PIFA because you love art, or because you’re good at it?”

 

“Both,” said Justin.

 

“I’ll let you in on one of my trade secrets, then,” Sam said, “Do your art, and don’t let anyone tell you how.”

 

Justin gave him an incredulous look. “In that case, wouldn’t that include you?” said Justin. It was incredibly hypocritical of Sam to say.

 

Sam grinned and punched him in the shoulder. “Yes! Now you’re getting the idea! Want another beer?”

 

*

 

Not only did Sam have more beer, he also had lots of cheap scotch.

 

“Nope. I’ve only fucked one girl,” Justin said. He shrugged aimlessly and lit a cigarette. “Not much fun. And we were lucky that our friendship held out through all the shit afterwards.”

 

Sam raised his eyebrows, said in a lewd tone that rolled easily out of his mouth, “I take it you weren’t quite good enough for her?”

 

“More like not quite straight enough,” said Justin. 

 

Justin didn’t really expect Sam to be surprised, especially not after looking at a copy of Rage. He wasn't.

 

“Queer? I thought so,” Sam said. At Justin’s look, he added, “Don’t worry, I don’t have anything against queers. I fucked a lesbian once, and she was _sizzling_ in the sack.” He chuckled roughly and took a longer gulp of scotch than before.

 

“My boyfriend fucked a lesbian once,” said Justin, through another exhalation of smoke. “But he never really talks about it. I think it was kind of traumatizing.”

 

*

 

Justin decided to lie on the floor, because at his stage of inebriation the carpet seemed very comfortable. “Hmm,” he said. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.”

 

Sam nodded at him wisely. “I invited you,” he said.

 

“No, no,” Justin said, and waved a hand in the air. “I mean _here_ , like, in Los Angeles. Am I doing any fucking good? I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m even an artist anymore. Maybe I’m just a sellout.”

 

“Fuck, yeah, you’re an artist,” said Sam. “You can be an artist at the same time that you’re a sellout, they’re not mutual – they’re not mutually exclusive.”

 

“Do you really think so?” said Justin. He rolled onto his side and looked at Sam, who was sprawled out and leaning against the coffee table, eyeing his glass with disdain.

 

“Hmm,” said Sam.

 

“The stuff I showed you – I’ve done better stuff than that. I’ve done better.”

 

“Okay,” said Sam. “You know I wasn’t trying to... hurt your delicate feelings or whatever.”

 

“Fuck, no,” Justin laughed. 

 

“Good,” said Sam, “Because that was the closest thing to an apology you were going to get.”

 

“Well, I appreciate it,” said Justin. “Anyway. I was kinda pissed at you at first, but you gave me some stuff to think about.”

 

Sam nodded, like he’d known all along that what he said would lodge in Justin’s mind.

 

Justin hmm’ed back in his throat. “I just don’t get it. I’ve done better stuff than what I’m doing. I was – I was really angry for a while, and back then I made art that meant something to me. I don’t know why I can’t do anything like that now. Do I have to be fucked-up to do anything good?”

 

“Maybe you’re just not passionate about it,” said Sam. His voice was low, like maybe he understood. Maybe he _got_ it.

 

Justin cocked his head to the side. “And how should I get around that problem, oh wise one?

 

Sam moved closer to Justin, lay beside him on the floor and waved a finger in his face meaningfully. “Ah, that’s easy. You just need to let something _make_ you passionate.” He nodded to himself and leaned his head back against the carpet. His elbow bumped Justin’s side.

 

Justin sat up slowly. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. 

 

Justin didn’t think about it, didn’t analyze it. It was one of those “seemed like a good idea at the time” kind of things. 

 

“Can I – can you –,” said Justin, and undid Sam’s jeans.

 

Sam gave a start, then looked at Justin. Justin shrugged. 

 

“I want to – is this a bad idea?” said Justin.

 

There was a moment in which neither of them moved. Then, Sam asked “In what sense of the word ‘bad’?” and reached to guide Justin’s hand.

 

“Okay,” said Justin, and rolled over to wedge himself against Sam’s leg. He grabbed Sam’s cock more firmly and started jerking him off slow, and Sam shook his head, but didn’t say anything. He hardened in Justin’s grasp.

 

“Shit, I think I’m drunk,” said Justin. Sam chuckled in Justin’s ear, amused at the understatement.

 

Justin groaned and leaned his forehead against Sam’s shoulder. He felt fingers comb through the hair at the nape of his neck, and stroked Sam’s cock a little faster. Sam’s hips rose to meet his hand, and he held Justin’s head steady with his arm. 

 

After a couple of minutes, Sam came silently, hips rising a last time and lips parted. Justin felt Sam’s hot semen slick his palm. Sam shuddered and dropped back, and Justin’s hand slipped out of his jeans.

 

*

 

Justin left quickly, with just a mumbled see you later and Sam’s nonplussed expression. He went home horny and hard, but didn’t jerk off. He grabbed a pencil from his desk, and a stack of computer paper from next to the laptop, and curled up against the wall by his window. 

 

His cock ached and his hands smelled like Sam, and Justin didn’t care what time it was, he just _drew_. And it didn’t all work, it was sloppy, he didn’t know what the hell he was trying to do, but it felt so _good_. Fuck, it felt so good.

 

Justin didn’t stop until almost morning, when his fingers started to ache and clench together.


End file.
